


The Sea is Changeless

by AlwaysPetTheMabari (FamiliarHarper)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Child Loss, F/F, F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FamiliarHarper/pseuds/AlwaysPetTheMabari
Summary: On one of their few nights alone together, Dorian Pavus asks to learn more about the quiet Qunari man he has come to deeply care for in the last few months. Initially uncertain,  Tal-Vashoth Inquisitor Meraad Adaar gradually starts to recount the story of his mother's decision to leave the Qun. It is not quite so simple a tale as what Ambassador Montilyet has spun for the rest of the world...
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 7





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Things of note:
> 
> \- Dragon Age and associated material belongs to Bioware/EA
> 
> \- This wound up mostly featuring original Qunari characters, as I really wanted to play in the Par Vollen and Seheron sandboxes, since we haven't had the chance to see much of them yet outside of the comics. I was also really curious about what could inspire someone to leave the Qun, since canon storylines have largely discussed what keeps folks within the Qun, or pushes them to join up. (Thanks, DA2. *eyetwitches*)
> 
> \- I'm still trying to sort out how I want to handle all the Qunlat terminology and translation, so that may get edited/adjusted as I go. Most of the words I used came from the official Dragon Age Qunlat wiki page, but I also wanted to give credit to saam (https://saam.dreamwidth.org/3008.html) for the excellent conlang additions to flesh things out a bit more.
> 
> \- As a relatively new fanfiction author, I am always going to be deeply grateful for feedback. Honestly, it keeps me going, so if you read this and have thoughts: I welcome them and thank you in advance for taking the time! I am very much motivated by learning how to improve at this, so your help with that means a great deal to me. <3

_Words,_ Meraad thought to himself, _are a blessing to those carrying the weight of the world._

For such fluid, transient creations, mere sounds given shape, texture, and possibly too much time depending on the story teller’s personal habits, words certainly held the power to shift one’s sense of reality for a few moments. It was nothing short of magic, as the young Tal-Vashoth saw it, taking the listener somewhere else entirely when they most needed those three solid steps away from the worst of what the next day most likely held.

Too few people appreciated how fortunate they were to both freely listen to, and produce, the wonder that was speech.

Meraad’s eyes had been closed for quite some time now, as he leaned comfortably back against the pillows propped up against a thick oaken headboard behind him. A slight smile curved at the edge of his mouth as he shifted his focus back to the voice of the man currently pacing the stones just beyond the foot of the bed. Meraad was half focused, paying just enough attention to know that the content of those words involved some amount of complaining about a family matter, but he couldn’t help it: there was a comforting familiarity to this particular rapid-paced, sharp-witted baritone. Try as he might to focus, there were times when it was simply most soothing to let the subject matter fade into the broader experience of sound.

Thank whatever gods had gotten him this far that Meraad had somehow earned the stories, and affection, of one Dorian Pavus, who among his many titles of Altus, necromancer, mage of Tevinter, and so on, might also have earned formal recognition for his nearly constant ability to speak, if such an award was ever to be given.

To be completely honest, Dorian’s words were one of the things Meraad loved most about these rare evenings spent alone together, particularly in moments such as these, when the mage just _talked_. He loved that Dorian was both blissfully unaware of the gift he was providing, and equally unaware of the gift he had always held for himself by virtue of his birth and upbringing: a mage speaking freely without any true threat in doing so. 

It was a deliberate naivete nearly as beautiful as Dorian himself. 

“...Meraad Adaar. Are you actually _falling asleep_ in the middle of my attempt to describe a very significant personal development?”

“Hm?” Meraad opened his eyes to find, and hold, Dorian’s gaze. There was clear amusement in the human man’s pale grey eyes, as Meraad mentally scrambled for several seconds to recall what exactly Dorian _had_ been speaking about a few moments before, “You were talking about the most recent letter from your... father.”

“Uncle, actually, but I suppose we will still give you credit for the effort,” Dorian crossed his arms across his chest. “I am, however, becoming quite concerned that you have been pushing yourself past your limits, Inquisitor.”

Meraad sighed and closed his eyes once again. It was rapidly becoming clear that he was going to be drawn into the conversation, rather than being permitted to simply enjoy listening. Generally banter would have been a welcome part of an evening spent together, but Meraad’s heart wasn’t in it tonight. There had just been too much else going on of late, too many close calls, too many… vast, world-altering choices that someone like him should never have been permitted to decide.

Regardless, he still owed the mage a reply.

“And why is that?”

Meraad could almost hear the dark, arched eyebrow that accompanied Dorian’s slow, drawn out response.

“Well, Inquisitor, for one thing, your generally astute powers of observation are somewhat lacking this evening.”

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Meraad opened his eyes again. This time he chose not only to look at Dorian’s eyes but allowed his gaze to trail down past the dark tousled hair and smirking face to the arch of his neck, his bare shoulders, his uncovered chest--

Meraad promptly realized that over the last several minutes of Dorian’s ongoing private banter, the mage had also managed to remove all of his clothing. He could not help but stare for several seconds at the now entirely naked Tevinter mage, equal parts distracted by the sudden lack of attire and the several new scars that Dorian had acquired since their last night together.

“Oh,” Meraad blinked several times, “Dorian, I--”

“‘Oh,’ he says, in complete surprise!” the mage laughed quietly, moving across the floor to sit on the edge of the bed nearest the larger, bronze-hued man, “And here I was beginning to worry that you were getting tired of looking at me!”

“ _Never,_ ” Meraad said quietly, albeit a bit with a bit more force than intended. 

Dorian really _looked_ at the Qunari then, and said nothing further, though Meraad noticed that actual concern touched his previously amused expression.

It was too much.

Meraad turned his gaze away from Dorian’s questioning expression, and then almost immediately leaned down, thick arms pulling the smaller man towards him. “Shall I prove it to you?” 

Initially, Dorian allowed himself to be drawn backwards into Meraad’s lap, the larger man supporting his neck and back with a level of gentle care that still surprised the smaller mage, for all that they had spent months together at this point. Meraad leaned down to kiss him, his left arm continuing to cradle his partner’s weight even as his right hand curved up and around to Dorian’s chest and began to trail its way down towards his waist-- but Dorian caught it within his own hand before it descended further.

Meraad leaned back immediately, golden eyes curious at the uncharacteristic hesitation, but clearly willing to wait.

_...how did anyone ever view the Qunari as anything less than masterfully in control of themselves?_

Dorian moved past that particular thought, drew Meraad’s hand to his lips, kissed it once, and then murmured, “You know, you always let me talk about myself.”

He carefully lifted himself from the larger man’s lap, settling himself beside the Tal Vashoth once again, and crossing his legs.

“And while I am certainly a subject of which I am quite fond…” Dorian pulled one of the furs over them both, “I am starting to get the sense that tonight it may be best if I, dare I say, shut up and listen to you talk _about you_ for a change?” Dorian offered the last bit with what he hoped was a relatively encouraging smile.

Meraad simply stared at him for a long moment, then glanced away, raising one hand to rub behind the dark, black horns that spiraled back from his thick, coppery hair. 

_Hair that he could so easily reach up and grab--_

No, no. Not right now.

Meraad had wanted more than just the sex, when asked. They had taken this risk together.

So Dorian would provide more. Or he would, at any rate, if he could just figure out how to get his tall, silent _amatus_ to actually speak.

Thankfully, Meraad finally nodded his slow agreement, “This is unexpected, but I can try,” 

_Progress--_

“What would you like to know?”

_Damn._

Dorian sighed, then genuinely considered the question. What did he want to know about the man he’d been fighting alongside for months? 

“I think I’m fairly up to date with all that has happened since you were thrown out of the Fade and the world subsequently decided you were the best man to sort out the whole torn sky, demons for days, time has gone sideways bit.”

Meraad actually smiled at that. _Good._

Having found his momentum, Dorian continued, “But if I’m being completely honest -- something I am not altogether comfortable with but will indulge for your sake, mind -- I have likely heard more from Josephine than I have from you when it comes to what happened before all this. And I don’t just mean your mercenary team, I mean your family.”

“You want to know about my mother?” Meraad asked.

Dorian nudged him with an elbow, “Well, both of your parents. They’re Tal-Vashoth, if I remember from the reports?” He paused, then continued, “You were rather insistent about me making things right with the good _Magister_ Pavus back in Redcliffe. I had assumed you must think at least somewhat fondly of family to encourage my making amends with my father?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Meraad said, then looked at him again, with the same strange intensity from earlier, when he’d joked about getting sick of each other.

“Dorian?”

“Yes, _Amatus_?”

Again, a gentle smile eased that strange, urgent tension in his broad, bronze face at the sound of the Tevinter’s term of endearment. If only he could keep it there.

“Josephine…” Meraad paused, then continued, “She made some changes to my story. To make it more palatable to most Thedans.”

“That does not surprise me, Meraad,” Dorian said, “As I’ve noted before, and as further evidenced by your having a dreaded Tevinter mage laying here naked in your chambers, you have many gifts but political… tact is not among them.” Dorian grinned to make his jesting clear, then leaned into the larger man, “So, what did she change?”

“How my mother originally lived under the _Qun_ , and gave birth to me there. She eventually took me with her, and my father remained.” 

“Ah, I... see.”

Dorian took one long breath in and released it, choosing his next words with care, “From what I’ve heard from Bull, it must have been quite challenging for your mother to leave with you in tow?”

Meraad nodded, “I imagine that it was, though I remember little of it.” He paused, then chuckled quietly to himself, “Granted, I also know that there is very little my mother cannot do, when she must.”

“Sounds rather familiar,” Dorian murmured, taking Meraad’s hand once again, “Will you tell me about her?”

“I can, but are you certain that’s how you want to spend our evening?” Meraad asked, “Listening to me guess about what my mother’s life might have been like?”

“In knowing of her I can better understand you,” Dorian said calmly, but firmly, “So, yes. Let’s hear it.”

Meraad smiled again, “Very well.”

Slowly, as if easing into some unfamiliar new territory, The Inquisitor began talking of people and events he’d not spoken of in years, and strangely enough, began to find that the magic of words could also come from the stories told in his own voice.


	2. Chapter 2

“Tamassran?”

The bronze toned Qunari woman glanced up from her notes to take in the questioner, brushing strands of thick copper hair back from her face to consider the new arrival. The man who stood before her, a more typically hued silver-skinned soldier, looked nervous for all of his considerable size and thick, black, curling ram horns that spiraled out beside his ears. Most would not notice the slight tension in his shoulders, the brief glances he gave to the room behind her rather than allowing his focus to remain upon her face. Instead, they might only see the width of his shoulders, the ease with which he moved despite the massive axe strapped across his back.

But this was what a Tamassran is for, to see that which would not be spoken, and bring it into the truth of what actually was.

“Be at ease, Sten,” she murmured, keeping her voice deliberately low, her pace even. She rose from her chair, closing the book of genealogical history that had held her attention before the soldier’s arrival in the same motion, then indicated with a sweep of her hand that the soldier was welcome to enter. 

He nodded once then moved towards her, closing the door behind him, and she gestured for them both to walk to the far wall, where a smooth, curving bench, softened slightly with several layers of furs, curved out from the rest of the mossy stone. The soldier watched her carefully, and moved to sit only as she did.

She let the silence linger for a moment, taking in the sound of water that flowed just outside the small, round room. She noticed the sunlight that landed on tree roots woven between ancient stones, the faint mist that rose in the island heat. As she listened, she also watched the soldier in the moment of quiet, seeing how he too began to settle into their surroundings.

Good. He knew enough to simply _ be _ . This would bode well for the young ones who would follow.

The other priests, her fellow Tamassran, had chosen well.

“You understand and consent to why you are here?” she asked, watching him carefully.

He nodded, “I do. We serve the  _ Qun _ in our creation of life.”

Though he seemed more comfortable looking at her with this statement, she noticed that his shoulders were still taut, and that one hand flexed briefly against his thigh, as though grasping for the weapon that still remained sheathed. She extended her mirroring hand, carefully wrapping her fingers just past his wrist, and moved her fingers to press into the muscle just past the bone.

He glanced down, allowing his hand to relax into her massage. A familiar reaction followed: his eyes widened in surprise as she touched just the right nerve, then those same eyes closed into the pleasure of even so simple a motion. When he spoke again, the soldier’s voice was far less restrained, the uncertainty of his initial question shifting into comfort, even as he addressed her in a similar fashion, “I thank you, Tamassran.”

She smiled, the expression one of genuine delight at this one’s youth and formality, “There is no need.” The Tamrassran raised her other hand to the soldier’s face, pulling him closer to her.

“How do we--” he hesitated, “Do I need to do anything?”

“I will guide you,” she murmured, “Speak if you need something more than the mating itself, though I assure you, I will make sure you thoroughly enjoy the process.”

The young soldier nodded again and the bronze hued woman allowed her hand to drift down from his face to one of his previously tense shoulders. He finally lowered them into relaxation, even as he took his opposite arm to unhitch the axe that had remained strapped across his back the entire time. She watched the ease with which he shifted it behind him, and the care with which he leaned it against the stone wall behind the space where they now sat.

The soldier, the young Sten, turned back to face her, and his eyes held nothing of the initial fear she had seen at his arrival. Instead, there was a quiet fire in his expression, a readiness that she had no doubt had set fear into the heart of more than one purposeless  _ Bas _ he met in battle.

_ Good, _ she thought to herself.  _ Let the warrior be present for the creation of our child. _

She reached out to him swiftly and he met her in the space that was once between them, their bodies crashing into one another in a torrent that melded both need and duty.

It was only many hours later, long after the soldier had left, that the Tamassran rested, exhausted but satisfied while wrapped in furs on the floor, and reflected on her strange use of the possessive word “our” in the context of the child she had hopefully conceived.

\---

The year that followed her mating with the silver skinned soldier was a strange one. Following the cessation of her bleeding, the Tamassran found herself swiftly removed from the hands on role with many of the Sten she had long served, no longer providing physical and psychological comfort to adult warriors struggling with their memories and the internal wounds of battle, but instead assigned to the education of children, the  _ imekari _ of the Qunari.

To say that she found this change frustrating would have been an understatement.

Children simply operated in an entirely unfamiliar way. Their play and their choices seemed almost nonsensical after years of serving grown adults in need of release following a particularly stressful mission or battle. She tried to comprehend their needs, but they felt somehow more complicated, rather than less, particularly given their limitations in speech.

Still, the Tamassran knew that this was an opportunity to learn, and even as she dealt with the annoyance of her own body’s fatigue and changing shape, she began to uncover ways of connecting with the children she taught. She appreciated the way that they changed so quickly, how their unique personalities emerged and blossomed, even from one month to the next. She listened closely as the older Tamassran, more experienced in the education of the children of the  _ Qun _ , pointed out which characteristics would make one young girl better equipped for a role amongst the craftsmen, while another young boy proved himself quite adept at bending the truth, and thus well equipped for training amongst the Ben-Hassrath. 

She paid attention when these elder priestesses explained how each child’s lineage had been selected, the generations of choice and deliberate breeding that had gone into their eventual arrival. Granted, her interest was even further perked when something went unexpectedly awry. She found it both intriguing and somewhat amusing when all of these hours of calculations resulted in what one of the oldest women referred to as “peculiar happenstance,” and the child excelled in something altogether unexpected. 

The Tamassran could appreciate the work and effort that went into such careful breeding, and yet it still seemed like a truly  _ painful _ amount of time spent in calculation and writing when the children were  _ alive _ , right in front of their eyes, proving themselves through their own actions with each new round of calisthenics, winning or losing various athletic games, and demonstrating their wit and creativity in a selected craft for the day. 

_ Well _ , she considered, watching several of the eight and nine year old children sparring with wooden weapons along the shoreline on a particularly humid afternoon,  _ at least they knew where I was meant to be within the greater whole. With adults. Adults who have already sorted out exactly who they are and what they were meant to do with themselves on a daily basis. _

She sighed and shifted her weight, feeling the child move within her. It was becoming increasingly uncomfortable now that she was nearing her time. She was more than ready for this particular member of Qunari society to make its exit from where she had carried it for the last ten months, and join its cohort of young warriors. She knew it was intended to join the  _ Arishok _ , the warrior class, alongside the Sten who had provided its conception. The texts revealed that the child she carried would combine a particular lineage of warriors and tamassran in an effort to cultivate both a sense of duty and cleverness: in a word, a driven, yet thoughtful, tactician. All this provided, of course, that it was a boy. 

The Tamassran smirked slightly at that. Perhaps it would prove itself to be peculiar and wind up a girl, just to spite one of her more genealogically obsessed sisters.

She breathed, adjusted her position again, and called out to one of the children who was now on top of a smaller companion. She had him solidly pinned, and was starting to press her small, fake dagger into his throat with a bit more vigor than necessary.

“Enough, you two.” 

The girl looked up at her, clearly disappointed, but did not remove her blunted weapon.

“You’ve won the bout, child, you don’t need to kill a perfectly decent soldier to prove it.”

Finally the girl eased off just enough for the losing party to roll himself out from under her, grabbing her dagger as he did so. The Tamassran just shook her head as a chase ensued, other youth cheering on both the dagger thief and his pursuer in equal measure. 

“Is this a training exercise, Tamassran?”

She turned towards the male voice, eyes widening in surprise and recognition at the tall grey skinned figure who was approaching. 

It was the soldier, rank Sten, from all those months prior. He was smiling, looking far more comfortable than he had at any point during their pairing, arms crossed easily over his chest as he grinned at her and then glanced back at the children. “I seem to recall my own education as somewhat more, ah, rigorous.”

The Tamassran arched an eyebrow, “I assure you, this is all well in hand.”

“Oh?”

She nodded, “We were discussing the importance of never losing your weapon, or tool.”

“I see,” he murmured, watching the young, determined girl as she continued to attempt to catch up with the boy, “And I take it the young Tallis is learning this the hard w--”

He cut himself off as the smaller Qunari girl suddenly launched herself at her somewhat larger competitor, tackling him back into the sand through sheer momentum and a direct hit to his knees. As he fell, she deftly scrabbled on top of him, grabbed the wooden dagger with her left hand, and twisted it back against the boy’s thumb. He promptly yelped and released it back into her hands, at which point she rolled away from him, stood, and held the dagger aloft to tremendous cheering from the other children.

The soldier shook his head, though he was grinning, “Well taught, Tamassran. You may have the newest member of the Ben-Hassrath on your hands.”

“Perhaps,” she said, rising back to her feet as best she was able. She inhaled sharply as one of her calves suddenly seized up with the motion, attempting to shift her weight to the other leg and stumbling in a moment of unbalance. The Tamassran reached out with her hands to try to regain her posture, and found herself holding on to a suddenly offered, thick grey arm. 

She was grateful that the soldier said nothing, simply kept his physical support there until the discomfort passed and she re-established her own footing, then wordlessly lowered his arm back to his side.

Yes, she would be very, very pleased when this child of the Qun that left her lopsided and ungainly had found its way into the world and she could again move with the grace and to which she had long been accustomed. 

She moved over to the children, and called out to the small, dark grey girl who had just won back her prize.

“Your friends call you Edge, yes?”

The child nodded once, “They do, Tamassran.”

“I see why,” the Tamassran replied, offering a hint of a grin to the girl, “You have earned it, retrieving your own sharp-edged weapon as you did.” The woman lifted her face to address the other children, who watched her cautiously as she spoke, “Those who do what must be done, even to correct a loss or error, will find themselves worthy of greater responsibility.” 

She turned back to the girl, who was watching her with rapt attention, “Edge, you will lead the others in the collection of appropriate branches for spears, and hunt the yellowscales when they are brought in with the tides. Determine who is best suited for the creation of the weapons, and who is best suited for capturing our dinner. Begin.” Edge nodded with a solemnity the Tamassran would not have expected from one so small before her time working with the youth had started, and quickly set about speaking with the others. One group set off in the direction of the nearest forest, while Edge herself led the second party of children to scout out the tidal basins where yellowscale fish were most likely to be caught.

The Tamassran was surprised to see that the soldier was still standing there, watching her, when she turned back to return to the rock she had been sitting on. She considered him for a moment, noticing the way that he watched her in turn. 

“I am assigned to the children now,” she said, one hand falling under her rounded stomach to point out a second, more obvious reason she could not serve him as she once might have, “Would you like me to find another priestess to help you?”

“There is no need,” he replied, “I had only hoped to speak with...” She tilted her head, noting the slight pause as the soldier seemed to catch himself mid-phrase, “..someone. Anyone, I guess. But you were, well, here.”

“Ah, yes, here,” Aban muttered, “Down at the water’s edge, a solid hour’s walk from the Tamassran quarters.” 

“Entirely coincidental,” the soldier replied as he turned away from her, one hand rising behind his head and mussing up his thick mane of white hair as he closed his eyes against the wind coming off the ocean.

“I’m sure,” she muttered, walking past him to finally take her seat on the flat rock. She sighed, as much with relief at the pressure eased from her feet as it was at this man’s incredible ability to avoid getting to the point, “What is that you need, Sten? I’m sure there are more pressing matters to attend to following your return to Qunandar than to stand here talking with me.”

His eyes brightened, “Ah, so you noticed that I was away!”

She looked up at him, seeing the youthful eagerness in his face, and shook her head, “I was made aware of your imminent departure before I asked you to meet with me for our pairing, Sten. So that we would not miss the opportunity to meet the needs of the next generation before your unit was sent to battle.” She bit back the query of,  _ Why would you think otherwise? _

His expression faltered, and the soldier quickly redirected his attention back to the rise and fall of the water, “Of course, Tamassran. You and your sisters are always aware of such things. I only appreciated your attention to detail.”

She watched his back for a long moment, noting internally how his words attempted an embarrassed retreat from his brief moment of initial excitement. The Tamassran was aware of an initial urge to comfort him, to allow him space to speak further of what had prompted his brief outburst. What she was less certain of was whether this came from her training, the years of studying how to encourage even the most reserved soldier to speak of what pained him, or her own emotion. 

That was a disconcerting thought. 

Well, far better to permit his exit with what grace she could offer, re-focusing on the solidity of her own role as she spoke, though keeping her voice gentle, “The Tamassran hold both our people’s history and their future in such details, Sten. We must know of such things.”

He seemed to consider her words for a moment, “Of course, Tamassran.” Then the soldier offered a formal tilt of his head, and began padding his way back across the sand, practically stalking towards the great dome buildings of Qunandar in the distance. She stared after him, taking in the shift of his posture, the way that his greataxe now seemed to weigh him down with each step rather than serving as the perfect accompaniment to his size as it had before.

“Sten!” 

He paused midstep, then twisted about slightly to look at her once again. She noticed more than just the information provided in that expression now, but instead the surprisingly sharp golden yellow of his eyes, as of yet unmarred by the scarring often earned by the older members of the warrior caste. Strange, that she had not noticed this before. Or perhaps worrisome that she was paying attention to them now. 

Ah well, it was too late. She had made up her mind. 

“The children could use someone familiar in preparing weapons to guide them through that part of the exercise,” she muttered, “I am more familiar with daggers than spears. You will stay and assist, since you clearly have so little else to do with your time!”

He smiled, and began walking back across the beach towards her. “Of course, Tamassran.”


	3. Chapter 3

The birth of the child was difficult, though this was a possibility she had been warned about given that it was her first. Still, such verbal warnings had done little to fully prepare her for the tremendous physical pain that accompanied the experience. After hours of pushing, screaming against a piece of leather gripped in her teeth as she stood, knees bent, over the hands of those waiting to catch the child’s head, the young one was born. Several sets of hands guided her back to a nearby bed where she lay in a state of half-consciousness, aching in ways she had never dreamed possible, and only partially aware that the child had been taken from the room by her sisters before suddenly it began to wail.

She heard its cry, and reached out in the direction of the sound before she realized she had done so. An older Tamassran took her hand within her own, soft, thick-knuckled fingers, clasped it firmly, and returned it back to her bronze chest. She almost ripped it from the older woman’s grasp, wanted to shove her aside to find the infant, but forced herself to breathe through this initial urge.

The older woman kept her tone low and soothing, “It is healthy and will grow to serve the _Qun_ well, child. Let those who will raise the young one take care of it now, as you have raised other children before it.” 

She stared up at the woman, trying desperately to hold to the logic in her words, the expectations of release upon the act of birth that she had been taught from joining the Tamassran guild at twelve years of age, even as every instinct within her screamed to get out of bed and find what had happened to the baby. 

“You have done well,” came the older, reassuring voice once again. “This moment is the hardest, but you are stronger than your individual body’s mere urges. Maintain discipline, sister, for the greater body of the _Qun_ . _Asit tal-eb_.”

_The way things are meant to be._

She held to this sacred phrase in almost every waking moment in the days that followed. Her body healed slowly from its efforts, but her mind seemed to be taking longer, despite the repetition of those long understood words. Recognizing this, the sisters of her sect were surprisingly gentle with her in ways she had never before seen, checking in with her periodically throughout the day, and assigning her the lightest set of duties she had held since first reaching adulthood.

It was, she recognized quickly, enough to get her moving from her bed and away from her thoughts, but not so much as to be truly taxing. It was a standard expectation for soldiers suffering with the _asala-taar_ , giving them just enough routine to keep their minds from the night terrors, but not so much challenge as to remind them of what had caused the soul sickness in the first place.

The Tamassran found herself working with some of the same children she had taught during her pregnancy, but now there was almost always another Tamassran assigned to collaboratively teach. She need do little more than provide companionship to the young ones while the other Tamassran paired with her offered guided instruction in preparation for initial tests upon the children’s tenth year. 

She found it surprisingly soothing for having previously feared working with the children. Now, seeing the familiar young faces who had come to know her and she them? It was a welcome distraction, or perhaps even more than that. They were familiar to one another now, and that connection was a balm for the nearly constant ache of another connection which she knew she should not miss, and yet which seemed to be the first thing she thought of each morning when she woke.

Many of the children were beginning to demonstrate clear talents, and thus the days where all the youths had tried a multitude of activities together were coming to an end. Each afternoon and evening the group divided into three smaller sub-classes for specialized training and assessment. The first, was a collection of female artisans, likely destined to work alongside the master _Ariqun_ . They spent their days working on leatherwork, mastering the stone carvings that would form the structure of the great, hive-like, inverted pyramid style domiciles throughout Qunandar. A second group was composed of young males, future warriors to serve under the _Arishok_ , who spent their afternoons practicing with their first true blades. Finally, a collection of male and female youth were being considered as potential guardians of the _Qun_ itself under the _Ariqun_ , be that through the Ben-Hassrath enforcement, or the Tamassran priestesses. 

The Tamassran spent most of her afternoon with the children who were likely to be joining her caste of the great Triumvirate, the very soul of the Qunari people. This piece of their training was repetitive work, consistent recitation of the most basic, ancient texts of Ashkaari Koslun. She remembered how her own Tamassran teacher, many years prior, had once described the act of memorization as bringing each young one closer to understanding the perfection of the _Qun_ itself.

“Struggle is an illusion,” she said, and then gestured to the collected youths sitting cross legged on the stone floor around her.

“Struggle is an illusion,” the children replied.

“The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless,” she said, and nodded for the children to speak.

The young voices came as one, “The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless.”

“There is nothing to struggle against,” the Tamassran murmured.

“There is nothing to struggle against,” came the echo.

“Victory is in the Qun,” she said, completing the first statement.

“Victory is in the Qun.”

She took a deep breath and began again, now on her fourth recitation of the text, “Struggle is an illusion…”

“Struggle is an illusion.”

She would continue this five more times following this next round, three sets of three recitations solidifying the words in the children’s mind. Such basic principles would establish the necessary understanding before they moved to discussion of Koslun’s parables, and from there a broader application to the perfection of Qunari society at large.

Having spoken these words herself for so very many years, the Tamassran found her mind wandering along a second train of thought, even as her lips continued to repeat the text. 

She was failing the very thing she was teaching

Every morning felt as though she was lifting an impossible weight from her chest to so much as attempt to move. She had examined herself thoroughly and knew that most of her physical ailments from the difficult birth were well on their way to healing, and yet she still hurt. Her breasts were sore from nursing other infants born around the same time as the child she had carried, her stomach and groin still sore from the act of birth itself, but it was more than that. Something that weighed her down, as if iron now coated her bones.

Waking up, moving, existing? All of it very much felt like, well, a struggle.

It was a feeling, it should pass. Most feelings did, given time and enough reflection on how her actions had contributed to victory. And what greater victory could there be, than carrying another life into the world to serve, a perfect life that had been planned for generations?

That child would perhaps become part of the body, or part of the soul, and bring honor to the many.

“Strug--” she began, but was almost immediately cut off.

“--Tamassran! I have a question.”

She abruptly pulled herself from her thoughts, and collected her bearings. The lanky grey girl whose friends referred to her as Edge, and who had seemingly had a growth spurt since their day of training on the beach from the look of her, was staring up at her with some trepidation. The Tamassran looked at her for a long moment: this sort of inappropriate interruption amidst the recitations was unexpected, and certainly uncharacteristic for such a promising leader… why would she do such a thing?

The Tamassran paused, then tried to reflect on how many times she had allowed the class to work through the set of phrases. She realized, annoyed with herself, that she had almost started into a tenth repetition. An error that would not have been missed by the other students.

 _Clever to notice_ , she thought, _and surprisingly kind to act._

“Edge, well done.”

The other children peered at one another with uncertainty, a few whispers exchanged amongst two iron-hued boys towards the back of the room. The Tamassran eyed these students with deliberate challenge, and they quieted.

“That was a test, to see which of you were keeping count,” she paused, walked to a different space at the front of the room, and then continued, “You must maintain awareness of the texts as you speak them, and as they are spoken by others. To err is to misname, and as Koslun wrote, ‘To call a thing by its name is to know its reason in the world.’”

She turned to Edge, and nodded once. The young girl nodded from behind her mess of silvery-white waves of hair and finished the quote, “To call a thing falsely is to put out one's own eyes."

“Precisely.”

There was a knock against the stone wall near the room’s entrance as one of the middle aged Tamassran she had been paired with earlier in the day entered the class. They exchanged brief nods of acknowledgement, before the newly arrived educator said, “I will take them from here.”

“Of course.”

The children rose together, and the Tamassran watched each carefully, noting who strove for the head of the line, who was content with the middle, and who slowly tagged along at the end. She was learning how even the moments between formal classes provided key pieces of information, little clues as to how these young ones would operate together as a future team amongst the priests, or if they could function well independently, enforcing the _Qun_ in their travels.

She felt herself deflate slightly after the young ones had left the room for their next round of lessons, and allowed herself a moment to sit and consider what had just occurred. How could a mere illusion allow her to lose her place. Were it not for the care of the one young child, her imperfections would have been made evident to the entire class. Edge was learning far more than just the texts, but how to support a leader in a moment of weakness, so that the whole would be made strong. She was certainly one that all of the Tamassran were keeping an eye on.

There was a sudden shout from just down the hall, and the sound of children yelling, followed by the admonishments of the middle aged educator who had just left with the group.

Despite her aches, and a certain sense of frustration for so little time to collect her thoughts, she rose to her feet and swiftly walked out the open entrance of her assigned teaching area to investigate what had happened. 

She found two of the other children, both boys also being considered for the Ben-Hassrath role, pinning Edge to the ground. To her credit, the young girl did not waste energy shouting, but was twisting her hips, and lashing out at the ribs of one of her attackers with one of her feet, using the other for leverage. The boys, however, simply began hitting their smaller competitor in retaliation for her efforts, able to just stay out of harm’s way through size difference alone. Edge managed to twist one of her wrists against the place where the boy’s thumb met his index finger, yanked her hand free of his grasp, and grabbed at his hair to pull his head back. 

“You will get off of her immed--” the Tamassran began somewhat belatedly, now running towards the group as fast as she could make her aching body move. 

There was a flash of white light so sudden and blinding amidst the dark cavernous halls that she had to fling one arm up before her eyes to protect herself. She was aware of the scent of smoke and something burning, before one of the boys began to scream.

The Tamassran blinked several times, tears running down her face now, trying to make sense of what was happening amidst the blurred vision. 

More of the children were shouting, more in panic than pain from the sound of things. She wiped at her face again, still blinking, and finally was able to make some sense of what was going on.

Her fellow educator was coughing and trying to deal with flames that were creeping up the draped fabric along the exterior of her leather skirts. Edge was on the floor but no longer held down, rocking quietly, staring at her right hand as if transfixed. One of the earlier attackers was unconscious, possibly having fainted from shock at the sudden, unexpected appearance of flame, but seemingly unharmed. The other boy… 

The other boy’s hair was on fire, and one of his horns had, as best she could tell, entirely melted.

The Tamassran moved without thinking, grabbing him by an arm and hauling him along behind her at a half shamble, half run, up the hall towards the nearest internal waterway. She shoved a few gawking passerby out of the way to reach the edge, leapt directly into the hip deep waters of the aqueduct while pulling her charge in with her, and then promptly shoved his head underwater by his remaining horn. She pulled him out a second later, amidst considerable steam and the foul scent of burned scalp, but with no further flames apparent. 

He coughed, sputtered, and promptly began to wail again once he had breath for it. She took a quick assessment of his drenched, white, blistering scalp, and found herself suddenly nauseous. The Tamassran held him close while he continued to scream. 

“Get me a healer, NOW!” she yelled at several of the staring, nearby craftspeople, who quickly muttered the appropriate, “Yes Tamassran!” and went running in the direction of the closest _Viddathlok_ to find medics. She simply continued to hold the boy, singing songs she remembered from her own childhood, songs she had heard her sisters sing to the infants, and waited long, agonizing minutes before the healers finally arrived. They gave him something immediately that put him to sleep, a blessed relief from his pain, and carried him away for further treatment.

She was left alone, sitting in the middle of the canal, drenched from the waist down, and with blood and char from the boy’s scalp plastering her otherwise dry chest where she’d cradled him against her.

Slowly she forced herself to rise to her feet, to pull her leather skirt out of the water behind her, wringing water from the fabrics that draped around her hips and across her shoulder. She tried to quickly rinse the worst of the blood from her bare skin, running her hand underneath the leather straps that crossed her breasts to clear the remaining gore, before starting to walk back towards where she’d left the rest of the class. 

The Tamassran did not know what she expected to find when she returned to the rest of the class, had not, in the midst of trying to save one child, even had time to think through the rest of what had just occurred.

Rationally, it should have made sense that she turned the final corner to find Edge now surrounded by fully armored _Karashok_ grunt troops, their blades drawn and pointed to where she sat on the stone flooring. But for several seconds the Tamassran’s mind simply could not fully parse why her best student was being held at sword point.

She took a step forward, opened her mouth to speak, and felt a hand on her shoulder. The older Tamassran had come up behind her. She looked disheveled and somewhat singed, but wholly in control of herself once more. The other children had clearly been taken elsewhere, but she had remained, and her look was enough to stop whatever had been about to leave the younger woman’s mouth. 

“This is your first time seeing the initial forging of a _saarebas,_ yes?”

The Tamassran stared at her elder for a long moment, then angled her face to stare back at Edge, who was still looking at the ground, unmoving.

“Edge is--”

The older woman interrupted her, “This _saarebas_ awaits her collar. An appropriate _Arvaarad_ has been contacted and is on the way to hone this weapon further. You are no longer needed here.”

“But--” she attempted a second time, unable to take her eyes from the young grey-skinned girl. It struck her in an altogether random way that while earlier Edge had seemed to have grown so tall, now that she was surrounded by massive blades nearly half again her length, she seemed to have shrunk away to nothing.

“Sister,” the older woman’s tone was sharp now, “We have been patient with you because of the toll of your recent birth, but do not mistake our compassion for your recovery for acceptance of straying from the path. Your emotions cloud your judgement. Leave and reflect. _Asit tal-eb._ ”

The Tamassran nodded slowly, murmuring again in reply, “ _Asit tal-eb.”_

She turned and began her walk back towards the Tamassran quarters, to resume the classes she had been assigned for evening.


	4. Chapter 4

Time passed strangely for the Tamassran in the months that followed. Days blurred into weeks, with little meaning beyond the completion of assigned tasks, and the necessity of demonstrating greater effort as the extended period of patience from her sisters came to a rather abrupt end.

She knew that she had been removed from her work with the children only a matter of days after the boy’s head was burned. She also knew that this decision was intended to be both a reprimand and warning, taking her away from the most sacred work of genealogical selection and raising of the future of the _Qun_ , after her demonstrable emotionality. 

For all of this, she mostly considered the change a welcome relief.

It was easier to ignore the unwanted, treasonous emotions that had plagued her since she had given birth once she was back in the halls of her sisters who served the bodies and minds of adults. It was simpler to focus on the feelings and thoughts of the younger ranking members of the greater _Antaam_ , the narratives of the soldiers who had faced their first true battle against an enemy, usually along the contested shores of Seheron. Somehow their battles with swords and axes felt far more comfortable to sit with than the battle that had waged in her chest following the death of Edge, and the birth of another honored, yet cursed, mage and living weapon. 

The Tamassran physically flinched against her mind’s sudden interpretation of what the girl might look like now, collared and clad in the massive iron mask that would obscure her features and indicate that she could no longer be considered a true person. At least, the Tamassran thought to herself, it was unlikely that her lips would have been sewn -- the girl had gone willingly. She would abide by the laws, become the object of war that she now knew herself to be.

Clearly, with this weak line of thought flowing through her mind, it should have been Edge providing education for the next generation, and she the wicked thing bound and used. 

It all made so little sense.

The sudden sound of heavy footsteps caught her attention, though their owner paused just outside the door to her room. She looked up, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in her features. She simply did not have it within her to lie today.

The elder Tamassran had passed her over for Ben-Hassrath for a reason.

“ _Shanedan_ , Sten,” she said in weary greeting, “I take it you once again just happened to pass this way?”

The familiar silver skinned soldier considered her for a moment, his golden eyes edged with visible concern. He removed the axe from where it was strapped to his back, setting it down just inside the open door to her assigned working space, but did not enter himself.

“No, Tamassran, I won’t claim that today,” he said, watching her closely. 

Silence stretched between them, and she noticed how despite this, the soldier continued to patiently wait. There was no frustration in his expression or stance. He clearly wanted her permission to enter, which she appreciated, and yet that indicated that he was not here to make his own request. 

_You should not be here, if not for a legitimate need_ , she thought to herself. Yet the prospect of turning him away, when she already felt so hollow and false? 

What was one more transgression added to the growing list?

“You may enter,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded once, ducked so as not to catch the points of his massive, curled horns on the arch of the entrance to the room, and took a few steps in.

She made a gesture to the same stone platform where they had once mated, somehow over a year prior at this point, though she could not be sure of the exact passing of time, but remained in her own chair at the plain desk, littered with notes from prior sessions. He moved to sit where she indicated, though adjusted his posture several times after taking a seat, as though he did not quite know how to make himself comfortable.

There was, in truth, nothing comfortable about this at all.

“I was concerned for your wellbeing,” he admitted, after another lengthy pause.

“That is unnecessary,” she replied.

He shook his head in disagreement, “You have not left the Tamassran quarters for weeks.”

“And you are aware of my comings and goings for what reason, exactly?”

The soldier stared at her for a moment, eyes widening as he recognized his blunder. She almost laughed at the sincerity there: he genuinely had not considered the implication of his statement. Still, she did not have the heart to mock him for such an error -- he provided a strange comfort simply in being so perfectly suited to his role, clearly adept at leading platoons, less so at leading conversations.

“I will not say anything, Sten,” she said, “Provided you offer me some explanation.”

He nodded, the tension in his features easing off at her reassurance. 

“Some of my men responded to the awakening of the _saarebas_ several months ago _._ By their description of the incident upon report, I knew you had lost one of the promising students we trained at the beach.”

She said nothing in response to this.

The soldier waited a moment, then continued, “My duties are limited while we are stationed here, awaiting our next order. It was little trouble to wait outside the Tamassran quarters most mornings, when your sisters most often go to collect their bread allotment for the day.”

She raised an eyebrow at this, but he merely shrugged, “I notice patterns, Tamassran, that is all. Patterns provide information.”

“Perhaps I simply collect my items later in the day,” she murmured.

“You hold sessions with my brothers of the _Antaam_ , who would only have time to see you after the day’s drills.”

She gave him a sharp look, “Should I be concerned by how much you know of me?”

“I… no!” He threw up his hands, finally showing a bit of frustration beneath the wall of patience. She watched him cautiously, but he took a deep breath, lowered his hands back to his thighs, and stared, clearly unsure of where else to direct his attention, at the tiling of the floor. “Look, I simply came here because I was worried about you.”

“It is not your place, body of the _Qun_ , to be worried about one who represents its soul,” she murmured, though her gentle tone did not match her admonishing words. 

He looked up at her again, “Perhaps not, Tamassran.” There is a brief pause, as if the soldier is considering something quite dangerous before proceeding, “But you seem to be worried about a great deal more than just one person, particularly as one whose place is to teach us that suffering is a choice.”

She stared at him.

The soldier simply extended one massive, silver hand in reply.

“I think,” the soldier said, and there was an easy smile now that belied his dangerous statement from a moment prior, “That I am hungry.”

The Tamassran could only blink at him.

“I would like to request your company during my walk to the market. I would welcome conversation on navigating the, ah, nerves I’ve been experiencing, leading my men against the _bas_ beyond Seheron city. Will you help me with this, Tamassran?”

She had clearly underestimated his conversational abilities.

Regardless, the Tamassran took his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Every week, the soldier came to the Tamassran’s room and requested her company during his morning walk to the market. To her surprise, their initial discussions were just as he had implied: the young soldier was genuinely concerned with the weight of his new command. He had earned the rank of Sten a matter of weeks before their pairing, and the men who served under him in his first efforts at leadership among the infantry were relatively green. Their mission to Seheron had been a challenge more of boredom than battle, guarding the walls of a city that the  _ bas _ of Tevinter rarely bothered to attack, knowing it to be a futile effort.

She mostly just listened as they walked together, occasionally asking a question that helped him explore his fears from another perspective, or challenged the negative assumptions he had fallen into around his supposed ineptitude by virtue of inexperience. The Tamassran reminded him of things he had shared in prior walks, evidence of his successes that had clearly earned him his rank.

The soldier was thoughtful, deeply concerned for the wellbeing of the men of his  _ karataam _ . He demonstrated a surprising level of care for their individual needs, speaking of many of his soldiers by individual nicknames. 

“So many chosen names,” she commented, while examining a selection of fruit at the weathered looking stall of the produce distributor, “How do you keep track of them all?”

“It’s not so much keeping track of the names, as it is keeping track of my men,” he replied, moving to stand beside her. “You can’t very well yell _ ‘Karashok,  _ look out! _ ’ _ in the middle of battle when the man just ahead of you needs to watch his back or be frozen solid by the magister at his rear. You would lose most of the army, damn near every foot soldier on the field spinning on his heel to look at nothing.” 

The Tamassran allowed herself a small smile at this, but focused on making her final choices from the day’s options. She settled on several kiwi and a pair of mangoes, all of which would serve well in refreshing her in the expected heat of the coming days. She moved her selections to the thick pouch slung over her shoulder, and finally replied. “I see. Then all the friendly naming actually serves a purpose!”    
  
“It does,” the Sten said with a grin, “Individual recognition can serve the greater whole in some ways, Tamassran.”

She gave a deep nod of gratitude to the elderly distributor as she closed the flap of the pouch over the and smiled as he offered a stiff bow in return. She was careful to be discreet as she watched to confirm that he correctly crossed her designation off the list of those who had yet to pick up their allotment: though she knew his eyes were failing, she had little desire to dishonor him by giving any indication that she had noticed. 

Thankfully, this week there was no reason to pretend she had misspoken, as the distributor had completed his administrative effort correctly. The older Qunari tucked the list back into the pouch at his waist, then moved further down the line to assist another visitor waiting to receive their ration.

The Sten waited until they had walked for several minutes more before continuing the conversation, well out of earshot of the vendors. He then asked, “Papaya  _ and _ mangoes?”

“Are you judging my choices?” the Tamassran asked, turning back to peer up at him.

“Hardly! Only noticing that you in fact had the opportunity to make any choices at all,” he grinned at her annoyed expression. “The old man always just hands me a few bananas and sends me on my way.”

“Well, have you ever complimented the quality of his fruit?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me, soldier. Have you ever complimented the quality of his fruit?”

“...It’s hardly  _ his _ fruit, Tamassran.”

She rolled her eyes at him, “Of course not. The fruit itself belongs to the body of all Qunari from the moment he and his fellow workers pick it, knowing that it will soon feed the rest of us.” She paused, pulling a papaya out from her pouch, “But he tends the tree that grew this, he picks only the fruit that will nourish us and leaves the bad for the flies, and he provides ingredients for the baker who will make something more of it still.” 

She tossed the fruit to him, and he caught it with a grin, lifting it up to his mouth to take a bite.

The Tamassran closed her bag again then continued, “Your soldiers give each other names, so that they can better stay alive, yes?”

The soldier pitched his voice up, to better imitate that of one of her young students, “Yes, Tamassran!”

She chose to ignore this.

“Well, if you name the importance of the individual distributor’s work, acknowledge his contribution to the body of the Qunari, then he will better live as well.”

“And you just happen to get the best pick of the fruit when it’s time to pick up your allocation,” the Sten said, taking a second bite of the papaya and closing his eyes in enjoyment of the flavor, “Not that I’m complaining, in this particular moment!”

When he reopened his eyes he found her glaring up at him. His golden eyes widened, and he could only stand there in awkward uncertainty while she held his gaze for several long, drawn out seconds, keeping her features quite stern. He twisted his head to the side, blinking at her uncertainty and shifting his weight from side to side in discomfort.

The Tamassran winked and said with a small grin, “Precisely!”

“Oh you HAD me, Tamassran!” he said, bursting into audible laughter, “I thought I’d finally managed to cross a line and you were a hair’s breadth from sending me off to spend some time with your brothers of the Ben-Hassrath for re-education.” He shook his head, rubbing at one of his curled horns. 

Her smile faded almost immediately, and the soldier frowned.

“So I  _ did  _ cross a line, then?”

“No,” she said, annoyed, and then threw her hands up in exasperation, “Yes!” 

She clenched her fists at her sides, grasping at the fabric draped over her leathers and pulling at it in obvious distress, “I have no idea where the line is even meant to be drawn anymore.” 

The soldier watched her closely as she began to pace back and forth, her angular bronze face twisted up with far more emotion than she had ever permitted him to see in any of their prior encounters. He felt his stomach drop with something akin to guilt.

“Tamassran, I have.. I have taken too much of your time. Do you want me to go?”

She stopped, suddenly still, though she did not lift her eyes from the ground, “No, I want you to stay. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

He found himself shifting his considerable weight again, more uncertain in this moment than he had perhaps ever felt when facing any enemy or physical risk. 

“There is no problem with a soldier seeking comfort from a Tamass--” he tried to offer in response, but she cut him off.

“These have not been true sessions for some time now, Sten. If they ever were.”

He said nothing to this, could say nothing further to deny it, and so instead chose to wait for her reply. The Tamassran finally looked up, her dark hazel eyes, so often full of amusement, compassion, or even a spark of wit, were now as flat and grey as the sea in the wake of the storm. He knew that strange, false peace all too well, after fighting for one’s life in the midst of chaos, dodging wind tossed rope and oars and holding your stance against waves that crashed over the deck. You came out the other end of such trials too exhausted to rejoice, but aware that you were still alive, even if every part of you ached and you were chilled to the core.

“.. _.Aban, _ ” he said.

She just stared at him, those flat oceanic eyes narrowing into something sharper once more. He realized he greatly preferred this look of annoyed confusion to the hopeless fatigue from before.

“ _ Aban _ ,” he said again, more firmly this time.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice flat, “What about the  _ aban?  _ Are you returning to the sea, now?”

“Not today, no,” he replied, “But you reminded me of it, just now.”

She scoffed at him, hands crossing her chest, “Well, just now, you are officially talking nonsense.”

“And you are back to speaking like yourself! Sharp tongued one second, surprisingly kind the next.  _ Aban _ most assuredly fits.”

She stared at him, “Did you just… give me one of your soldier names?”

“Would it be so terrible if I did?”

The Tamassran watched him closely, her arms still crossed, “It would serve no purpose. There is little need for me to be identified specifically amongst my sisters.”

The soldier merely shrugged at this, but said nothing further.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then tilted her head to peer up at him, “And you, Sten? Do you have some other given name amongst your brothers?”

“ _ Adaar _ ,” he replied.

“Weapon?” She raised a brow, “I thought you said these names were given by your fellow soldiers to  _ accurately  _ represent a person’s character.”

The soldier made a mock gesture of being stabbed through the chest, “You wound me.”

The Tamassran tapped a single finger to his chest in a gesture of accusation. “Clearly you should have given  _ me _ the name Adaar, instead.”

“Clearly,” he agreed, grinning. He narrowed his eyes then, watching her closely and leaning back as if to examine her. “But then, you do accept the gift of the name?”

“We are the Qunari,” she replied without missing a beat, “We do not waste what is given.” She turned away from him then, beginning her walk back to the Tamassran quarters to meet with other soldiers for the day. 

“ _ Panahedan, _ Adaar,” she said in farewell as she departed, though she did not look back as she said it.

The silver skinned soldier grinned from ear to ear, then tossed the fruit in the air and caught it in a single fluid motion. “ _ Panahedan,  _ Aban.”


	6. Chapter 6

“ _ Aban _ ,” she whispered, exploring the sensation of the word as it passed her lips and settled into her ears. Night had fallen many hours ago, but sleep still eluded her, for all that she had met with seven separate soldiers upon her return to her quarters, several of which had required physical interventions as well as mental. By all rights, she knew she ought to be exhausted from the day’s efforts. And yet, lying on the familiar bed roll, hearing the wind as it blew past the open portal to the world beyond her sleeping quarters, every part of her felt on edge. And why did she feel certain that at any minute her room would be stormed by her brothers of the Ben-Hassrath, ready to take her away for re-education, or a well deserved dose of  _ qamek  _ to take all these memories of her insolence away? 

Possibly because she continued to make foolish choices, impractical choices, the choices expected of an idiot  _ bas _ that should have been easy enough to refuse, particularly for one of her standing. And all for what? A golden eyed  _ bigger idiot _ who would not leave her be.

“Curse him,” she muttered, squeezing her actual eyes shut as if that would also close off the image of the soldier’s smiling face in her mind’s eye. 

Granted, she was the one who kept agreeing to walk with him each time he appeared, telling herself that she was meeting the need she was intended for as she accepted the soldier’s request.

_ Very well,  _ she thought to herself,  _ Massive fools, both of us.  _ She pressed the palms of her hands against her face in frustration.

And now she had a _name._ Albeit a false name like those shared among the soldiers or the children gave themselves, but nevertheless, a name. 

“ _ Aban, _ ” she muttered again, this time a flare of annoyance tinging the flavor of the word. Why he had ever decided to refer to her as the sea was beyond her understanding, but then again, so was his decision to call her  _ anything at all _ beyond her appropriate title.

She thought back to that day in the classroom with Edge -- Edge, whose name had made sense for a child earning her place by constant trial with her larger peers, rarely found without a blade in hand to take her victory time and time again. Yet her name had always been a placeholder, something to distinguish her amongst many other, similar children until she developed into precisely what she was meant to be.

The Tamassran had always thought that she would one day refer to the girl as  _ Tallis _ , the name of one who _ solved _ by swiftly, and quietly, removing obstacles: granted, obstacles that often took the form of an enemy. How could she have known that Edge herself would be the one removed, and her true, purpose driven name  _ saarebas _ ?

They had been talking of such matters just before her… her loss, had they not? She tried to remember exactly what they had been discussing -- ah, yes, the parable: “To call a thing by its name is to know its reason in the world. To call a thing falsely is to put out one's own eyes.” 

All Qunari had two names. First, the names chosen with care by the sisters of her own sect, the names that detailed the long lines of choice and care that had resulted in each child’s birth. Second, the later names that represented that child’s eventual purpose when they reached the age of twelve, names shared with others who completed the same, critical task, uniting them in their role amongst the greater body of the  _ Qun _ . 

_ Aban? Aban _ was none of this. It was not a purpose, it was not chosen with care by those who knew her better than she ever possibly could know herself. It certainly was not indicative of her lineage and the generations before her! It was just  _ Aban, _ the sea.

How  _ dare _ he call her by such a falsehood? Where did he possibly get such strange ideas?

She pounded her fist against the flat of the stone floor alongside her bedroll in a sudden thrust of annoyance. It hurt, but the pain was surprisingly satisfying. The sharp physicality gave her a moment of much needed release -- something she often provided to the soldiers who visited her, but was not meant to receive in turn. She had always abided by this, made the choice that was acceptance of her role. It was not her purpose to receive, but to give. 

_ And yet, _ she thought to herself,  _ that is precisely what this fool of man keeps doing! Giving! He just keeps… _ the Tamassran sighed ... _ giving. _

She glared at the ceiling in the moment of realization of how utterly  _ ridiculous _ her own thoughts had become. This anger did not serve her in her efforts to remove herself from this unnecessary internal struggle. Far better to understand the why of his choices, ascertain the reasoning behind them. She knew him now, after many months of their walking together, to be a decent tactician. If that drove his motivations on the field, perhaps it also influenced his odd decisions with one particular Tamassran when stationed in Par Vollen?

But what possible strategy could come of pursuing a woman he had been paired with  _ once _ ? A woman of an entirely different sect within the triumvirate, who could provide no practical companionship outside of the usual comforts?

Or perhaps she was giving him too much credit. Perhaps this was simply some… corruption from his exploration of the outside world. She knew from stories shared with her that a soldier’s path often crossed with those  _ bas _ who surrendered and agreed to serve the  _ Qun _ . Perhaps some talkative elf told him strange tales of the chaotic life he was giving up, in order to pursue greater purpose and meaning. She couldn’t see Adaar silencing anyone, he was simply too curious for his own good, always trying to understand. He would have gladly listened to stories of idle copulation and children born purposeless, thinking that he was seeking patterns that would give him an edge up in his next encounter. 

Despite the many times she had referred to the man as an idiot in the last several sleepless hours, the Tamassran was all too aware of precisely how intelligent he could be.

_ Aban _ would have some deeper meaning to it, at least to Adaar. Some repetition of hers that he had honed in on, some hint of who she was, or how she generally operated, that made sense in his eyes. It was likely chosen with a great deal of care, which unfortunately made it that much harder to justify ignoring. 

_ Curse the man, _ she thought, and hit the back of her fist against the floor beside the bed roll a second time. She felt a wet warmth trickle down across the flat of her hand from her knuckles, and realized she’d managed to split one of them this time. 

_ Curse the man again. _

The Tamassran rose from the bedding, scrambling to her feet but not bothering to dress so as to avoid getting blood on anything. She lit the single candle that was currently sitting on top of a simple, unmarked chest by the far wall, and moved her hand beside it to take a closer look. She grimaced upon viewing the results -- she’d managed to give herself a surprisingly deep gash that was unlikely to stop bleeding without assistance. 

She used her uninjured hand to move the candle to the floor so that she could open the wooden box and access what few things she kept inside. A splash from a small vial of pure alcohol served as disinfectant, followed by a little elfroot salve that she kept in a jar beside it. She still had a few bandages available as well, which she wrapped around her right hand to stop the bleeding. She tucked the first aid supplies back within their designated spaces in the trunk, closed it once again, and then let herself sit down on top of it.

In the dim light of the flickering candle, the Tamassran became uncomfortably aware of the reality of her body. It felt almost as if she was viewing herself from the outside, rather than truly living each sensation. She knew, in a stark, clear headed sort of way, that she was hunched over, naked, atop an uncomfortable wooden chest, waiting for the elfroot to ease the throbbing across the back of her hand. She knew that she should move back to the bedroll, attempt to lay down and return to sleep.

Yet movement felt impossible in the moment. It was easier to sit, to focus on the pain in her hand, to focus on the discomfort beneath her thighs where the edge of the chest was digging into her legs the longer she sat there. Much easier to focus on these things than to notice the marks along her stomach that indicated where she had once carried a child, a child she was still missing despite everything she knew. The child that she was not meant to miss, and yet who remained in her thoughts with such frequency, no matter what she tried.

She had almost started to forget, and then Edge…

A Tamassran should not need someone to give something to her, but Aban did. The  _ Aban _ may be unchanging in its existence, but it was constantly in flux, forever taking soldiers from their ships when she was angry, even as she carried their companions on to their next destination. Aban could not turn away from what was given to her by this golden-eyed Sten, not when she continued to feel, try as she might to deny it, as though so very much had been taken.

Aban remained seated, unmoving, atop the chest until sunrise. Only once the light of dawn flooded the room and the candle had burned away to nothing, did she find herself able to rise, dress, and go about her day. 


	7. Chapter 7

She met with a few soldiers later that same morning, and almost immediately realized how difficult it was going to be to keep her focus. Words were drifting past her but she could barely parse their meaning, to the point that she had to ask the first man, an older warrior who had a variable network of scarring over the majority of his deep, steel grey skin, to repeat himself twice before she finally understood what it was that he wanted. He looked mildly annoyed at this inconvenience, but said nothing critical. This, she knew, was a benefit of older clients: a degree of understanding for moments when one’s body did not cooperate, regardless of the force of will behind it. 

Thankfully, once the miscommunication had been resolved, it became clear that this first client was less looking for guidance or counsel, and more simply seeking space to talk. This older member of the _Beresaad_ talked through issues troubling him about an upcoming scouting assignment in Avaar lands, working through most of the complications himself. She had only to nod, offer the occasional word of interest, in order to help keep him going. Aban found herself feeling grateful that she did not have to do much more than this in order to keep up with him, or the second visitor of the morning, who was similarly chatty. 

The third soldier needed a more physical intervention, something Aban recognized as soon as he stepped into the room, long before he reached the point of making a formal request. She would have had to have been entirely asleep not to see the tension in his shoulders and neck from his posture, the slight grimace to his features as he twisted his arm across his weight in order to remove his sword belt. She pulled up a chair and had him sit, leaning forward.

Aban raised her hands to start to work on the taut muscles of his back, and grimaced as she suddenly saw the bandages and remembered her injury from the night before. She adjusted the wrapping slightly, freeing up more of her fingers and the pad of her thumb, before leaning in and starting to work out the worst of the knots she felt along his shoulders and back.

The soldier groaned slightly as she hit a particularly tight area, but she kept at it, trying to ignore the small red stain forming on the bandages the more that she used her hands.

Someone cleared her throat by the entrance to her room, and Aban twisted around on her chair to see the most senior Tamassran of her specialty standing there. Aban was unsure of what to make of her appearance, as the older woman looked slightly frazzled. Few others would have noticed an issue, but the elder was missing a few pieces of her standard assortment of thick metal jewelry. The woven cords she usually draped on top of the carefully layered fabric were also far fewer in number, and largely only the ones required for practicality, rather than effect.

“Yes, Tamassran?”

“I do not mean to interrupt you, child, but we are all needed in the main hall.”

“Of course,” she nodded again, a deliberate demonstration of respect, “I will finish serving this _Karashok_ and join you immediately. _”_

“There is no time for that,” her senior stated, shaking her head in the negative, “ _Karashok_ , you will forgive us. The _Ariqun_ has arrived.”

At this sudden mention of the head of the entire spiritual sect of the Qunari, the soldier rose to his feet so quickly that Aban had to pull her hands back so as not to be toppled backwards. She bowed as best she could while her hands were still covered in scented oils, while the soldier, previously in tremendous pain, readily gave a deep bow to both Tamassran and exited.

“Ready yourself and join us,” the older woman said, then turned and left a matter of seconds after the soldier.

There wasn’t time to worry about why the _Ariqun_ had suddenly shown up to assess the work of her particular section of Tamassran, wasn’t time to berate herself for failing to sleep the night before such a significant event. No, there was only time to move.

Aban moved to the closet where she kept her additional attire, opened the door to find the thick leather outerwear that would provide protection if the city ever were to suddenly find itself under attack. She quickly added the layered, leather skirt over her current cotton shift, buttoning a few formal crimson drapes of silk over her hips as the last additional piece. She pulled her chest harness into place, and removed the more comfortable cloth sling she’d had been wearing prior while the leathers were still loose. She angled one arm up behind her back, swiftly tightening the buckle behind her shoulder blades with practiced ease to secure her top, A quick change of the bandage on her hand was the last thing she bothered with before moving out into the corridor and began a fast walk towards the main hall. 

As Aban entered the massive space and looked around, she initially worried that she was late. _Karashok_ soldiers already lined a central passage down the middle of the hall, their massive spears held erect to create a dramatic tunnelling effect. Along the walls, massive bronze statues of male and female Qunari loomed over them, posing in nearly impossible feats of valor, oversized representations of the ideal Qunari form. As Aban glanced up at the statues, then back to the soldiers, she felt certain that these particular warriors came about as close as any she had ever seen to that ideal. No wonder they had been selected to serve as the _Ariqun_ ’s guard.

From off to her right, she caught a glimpse of several of the educators she had served with during her time providing training to the youths. She deliberately turned to her left, easing herself further back into the crowd of younger Tamassran, and settled into the traditional, kneeling position a few paces away from another seated pair who were just close enough to one another to discreetly whisper in such a way that most would miss, or at least have reason to ignore. 

She recognized both of the women, younger Tamassran from her specialization, only recently moved to serve soldiers a few rooms down from her own space. They nodded to her in brief recognition as she settled in behind them, then resumed their prior conversation.

The smaller woman with coal hued skin was tugging nervously at her pale grey braid that fell down past her shoulder. Her coppery companion initially just shook her head in frustration, which did not catch her friend’s attention, and then finally caved and made a soft hissing noise to indicate her displeasure with the gesture, “Pull yourself together,” she muttered under her breath, “They will arrive any minute.” 

_They,_ Aban wondered to herself, _Who else is here besides the Ariqun?_

She watched as the darker Tamassran slowly let go of her hair, looked around herself for a moment as if desperate to find a different distraction, and then clenched her hands together. Unfortunately, this effort to find something else to do with her hands that was slightly less telling of her current preoccupation was of little use, given that her fingers visibly paled with the pressure she was putting on her hands with each squeeze. The copper skinned woman sighed, then looked back toward the entrance and froze, “Oh, they’re here.”

Aban glanced back towards the entrance. Though it was somewhat difficult to see her through the crowd of seated Tamassran, standing Ben-Hassrath, and the row of _Karashok_ guards, she could make out the distinct shine of the _Ariqun_ ’s armor as she entered the space. Aban had seen her several times before, but never from this close, and the effect was had was almost overwhelming. The Ariqun’s skin was almost as dark as the night sky, her silver white hair a stunning contrast against her face, and the thick red _vitaar_ paint that covered her entire chin and neck. Her layered, black leather skirt fit her perfectly, bars of gold inlaid into each individual, horizontal crease, with another golden panel that draped down the front. The fabric that fell fluidly over her skirts was fastened with a massive, opal brooch at the front, golden fringe cascading down from either side of the shimmering folds. Atop all of this: two massive, golden khopesh were strapped to both hips: beautiful in their design, and yet clearly worn along the edges as demonstration of their prior use.

It was difficult not to stare at such splendor, as Aban noticed that even the _Ariqun’s_ harness was intricately adorned, with red, white, gold, and black thread weaving together in a diamond pattern that crossed her chest, supported by a thick, silver collar that arched out into pauldrons and gauntlets, all painted in similar shades to match the fabric. Yet despite all of this heavy adornment, the _Ariqun_ moved down the hall amidst the _Karashok_ fluidly, as if she was wearing little more than the cotton shift Aban had been wearing earlier that morning.

The soldiers rapped their spears three times against the ground as the _Ariqun_ walked between them towards the broad, wooden throne that was positioned at the front of the room on a raised pedestal. Aban joined all of the Tamassran throughout the room as they leaned forward, arms and palms extended, to place their faces against the floor, then lifted themselves up again to watch as the _Ariqun_ took her seat.

Two raps from the spears followed, and Aban quickly glanced back to the entrance, curious as to who would earn a similarly significant welcome. 

A younger male Qunari walked in a moment later, peering around the room before proceeding, almost as if he was taking it in for the first time. He was trim, much narrower in build than the massive soldiers that stood at attention on either side of him. His attire, however, set him apart entirely. Much of it was similar to that of the _Ariqun_ , though his layered leather armor extended upwards in a solid panel to cover his chest, and the fabric that he had knotted around his waist lacked the extra embroidered gold. What grabbed Aban’s attention however, were the two golden khopesh that were also fastened at his sides. 

_Rasaan_ , she thought to herself quietly, _the Ariqun has finally selected her heir and emissary._

The _Rasaan_ slowly walked down the central passage formed by soldiers and spears, nearly as fluid in his motions as the _Ariqun_ had been. Aban nearly threw herself towards the floor when she realized she had been staring at him in surprise, and almost missed the cue of the other Tamassran around her as they prostrated themselves as one. With a soft grunt, she lifted herself up again just as the row of soldiers drummed their spears against the floor a third time, again in a pattern of three.

_What in the--_

The _Arishok_ himself, general of all of the armies of the Qunari people, stepped into the great hall and simply observed all of those present. The current leader of the Qunari’s warriors was dressed far more simply than those who had entered before him, though his full ebon and crimson _shokra-taar_ armor still made an impressive sight over his pale grey skin. His massive pauldrons were painted in a single russet hue, held in place by plain black leather straps that connected with thick leather reinforced with steel that draped around the exterior of his legs. Yet the intricacy of the _vitaar_ paint, a dramatic angular display of the protective paint that hardened into armor directly on his chest, seemed indication enough of his importance. He did not begin to move again until the _Rasaan_ reached the front of the hall, and the much smaller man stepped up to take his rightful place beside the _Ariqun_. 

Now this? This Aban had never seen before. It was exceedingly rare that two of the Triumvirate would appear in a public setting together, being viewed as too much of a risk that both might be attacked simultaneously. All the more rare when such an appearance involved the _Arishok_ , who was more commonly found Such things were only done when a specific rite was occurring, or... when an emissary was being formally assigned to serve at the _Arishok’s_ side to provide spiritual guidance, usually when the _Arishok_ was preparing to leave Par Vollen to engage in an act of war.

All of the soldiers in the room suddenly shifted their stance at some unspoken cue, pulling their right leg in against the left in with a collective snap and either shifting their spear directly in front of them, or crossing their arms across their chest with fists closed in salute. Most of the Tamassran present bowed their heads in recognition of the head of the Qunari army, but did not fall to the floor as they had for the _Ariqun_ or her heir. It was never necessary for the spirit to defer to the body, _asit tal-eb_ , though respect could be shown to one who had earned it.

The current _Arishok_ continued his slow, deliberate walk down the long path formed by his soldiers. Aban watched him closely, but then turned back to the entrance at the sudden appearance of a familiar silver face.

For the first time in all of their walks together, Adaar was fully armored in his own ebon and green _shokra-taar._ Russet _vitaar_ was painted in protective bands across his shining chest, and his long white hair, usually unruly, was now carefully braided and pulled back with thick green straps. Adaar’s troops followed in close behind him, two columns that just fit between the _Ariqun_ ’s guards. This small representation of the _Arishok’s_ larger army came to a halt as the general paused just before the _Ariqun_ and _Rasaan_ , and offered a stiff bow.

The _Ariqun_ ’s voice rose over the gathered audience, _“Arishokost. Anaan esaam Qun_.” Though the room had already been quiet in deference, now there was absolute stillness.

 _Peace, Arishok,_ Aban repeated her head priestess’s words in her mind, still doing her level best not to gape at Adaar’s back, _Victory is in the Qun._

The _Arishok_ rose from his bow with this greeting.

“ _Anaan esaam Qun,_ ” he repeated, “I stand ready to fulfill its demands.”

The _Ariqun_ nodded once to this, then spoke again, “The _antaam_ has done well against the purposeless ones in Seheron: both ignorant _bas_ , and the purposeless _Tal Vashoth_ who have turned against the _Qun_ . Yet not all can find purpose within the _Qun_ , as the beastial mages from the south continue to travel to Seheron, drowning in their ill controlled magic, and spreading lies that would bring chaos to our own shores.”

Every Qunari in the vast hall watched her in silence, a sea of grey and metallic faces held in rapt attention at what followed.

“It is time that the body of the _Qun_ moves beyond its stasis. You have proven yourselves capable of much, much more than simply a weapon raised against those who surround us in a display of power. It is time for the _antaam_ to strike.” T

The _Ariqun_ turned her dark face to the thin, similarly ebon hued man who stood beside her.

“As we speak, our ships near Tevinter’s shores, led by the _Kathaban_ ’s fleet. The magister _bas_ have divided their forces to meet our impending threat.”

No one in the room audibly gasped, but Aban felt certain that nearly everyone in the room had collectively ceased to breathe. This had been a masterfully kept secret by the Triumvirate, and certainly a deliberate choice to avoid any possibility of information leaking to inappropriate parties.

“I offer the wisdom of the _Qun_ , to you and your men _Arishok,_ as you lead your forces to a weakened Seheron.” The _Ariqun’s_ face angled back to those gathered, and began to recite what Aban quickly recognized as the first Canto of the _Qun_.

“Existence is a choice,” the _Ariqun_ said, her voice smooth. “There is no chaos in the world, only complexity. Knowledge of the complex is wisdom. From wisdom of the world comes wisdom of the self. Mastery of the self is mastery of the world. Loss of the self is the source of suffering. Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it.” The _Ariqun_ ’s pale violet eyes narrowed within her dark face as she came to the end of the recitation, “It is in our own power to create the world, _or destroy it_.”

The _Arishok_ nodded once again.

“Create Seheron within the wisdom of the _Qun_ , Arishok, or re-create it from the ashes of its destruction if you must,” the _Ariqun_ said calmly. She then gestured to her side, and the trim _Rasaan_ stepped forward. “I grant you my emissary to serve at your side as you leave for Seheron, and the service of any additional Tamassran here in Qunandar that you may need for your soldier’s welfare.”

“His guidance will be heard,” the _Arishok_ stated calmly, though he did not take his eyes from the _Ariqun_.

“ _Panahedan_ , _Arishok,_ ” she said, finally.

“ _Panahedan, Ariqun,_ ” he said, before offering one deep, final bow. 

The _Arishok_ then turned away from the seated _Ariqun_ to face the room that had just witnessed a formal declaration of attack. The _Ariqun’s_ guardsmen took one step back, so that Adaar and his men could part as well. The _Arishok_ strode from the room with the emissary just behind him, with Adaar and his unit following immediately behind. 

The _Ariqun_ rose and followed suit only after all of the representatives of the army had left the hall, escorted by her honor guard.

  
Only several seconds after the _Ariqun_ had vanished did the room finally break into hundreds of hushed whispers as the members of the priesthood sect turned to one another to begin to process what they had just witnessed. Aban could only sit in shock amidst the voices all around her: after many decades of skirmishes here and there, the Qunari were finally returning to war.


End file.
